An Ordinary Man
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: The 'comfort' Regina promised Rumplestiltskin comes from a flask. In cursed Storybrooke, he is Father Macavoy ("The Tournament, 2009"), the town drunk. He is an object of disgust to everyone but the lovely waitress who serves his breakfast.


She fills his empty coffee mug when Granny is out of eyesight. She knows he cannot pay. And while she pours, Belle lays a hand on his shoulder and gives it a tight, reassuring squeeze.

_Have strength,_ that squeeze seems to say. _Have courage._

What Father Joseph desperately needs is the courage to face the day sober. What he needs is the courage to give a mass without a flask of scotch hidden under his vestment. What he is lacking is the fortitude to sleep in his own bed, night terrors be damned. Instead, he whiles away his darkest hours at The Rabbit Hole, then staggers over to Granny's Diner for absolution.

Yes, Joseph has always been a drunk and a coward.

Still, while he is here at Granny's, and Belle smiles at him and brings him generous helpings of pancakes and scrambled eggs and sweetened coffee, he feels a little less fallen. A little bit more like an ordinary man.

Most mornings, he sits in the dark on the curb outside the diner, waiting for Belle to arrive and unlock the door. It's often just the two of them for the first hour or so. After she's finished making the coffee and arranging the pastries, Belle will sit with him for a bit, bringing a cold, wet washcloth for the back of his neck. She talks softly, knowing how his head pounds from the liquor and the insomnia. Sometimes she takes the cloth from his neck and uses it to gently wipe the perspiration from his face. Once, after a particularly depraved night of drinking, she took his hand and held it as the minutes crept by, meeting his astonished gaze with a tender look. "I pray for you," she had confided, "Every night."

But now the diner is full, and it's time for him to go. Mass begins at 8:15 on weekdays. Mother Superior will seethe and glower if he is late. What's worse, she may yell, and his aching head couldn't take that.

Father Joseph wishes he could leave Belle a tip. He wishes he had something of value to offer her in return for her kind looks and her generosity. All around him is darkness and sin, but Belle is his flicker of candlelight, his beacon in rough waters.

He rises unsteadily, lifting a hand to gingerly touch the the back of his head. The room tilts and spins, and all at once Joseph realizes he's going to be sick. The edges of his vision blacken; his knees buckle. He reaches out a hand to catch himself against the side of the small table, but it overturns, scattering his silverware and shattering his coffee mug, and then he is heaving up his breakfast on his hands and knees while the rest of the diners gape at him in disgust.

He cannot stop retching, not when his nose is nearly in the mess he's already made. His eyes burn, and his shoulders heave, and he's gagging so hard he cannot catch his breath.

"It's okay. It's okay...you'll feel better when all of it's out." It's Belle's voice, soft and low, right up against his ear. Her hand moves in slow, reassuring circles between his shoulder blades. He struggles to regain control of himself, but then he is heaving and retching once more, and he hears Belle calling out to the other waitress for a glass of water and some towels.

"Thank you, Ruby," she says, taking the cup and setting it near his knees. She lays one of the towels over the wet puddle of liquor and coffee and eggs he's created on the floor. "It's okay. You're okay. Take your time, Father," Belle murmurs, gently stroking the back of his head. "When you're ready, sip some water to get rid of the taste."

Joseph reaches for the glass, but his hands are shaking horribly, so Belle lifts the cup to his lips herself. He swallows a tiny bit and manages to keep it down. The worst of this seems to have passed.

The other diners continue to stare at the spectacle of the drunk priest slumped against the pretty waitress. She is gently cleaning the sick from his lips and his shaggy hair with a clean, wet towel.

"It's time for bed, Father." Belle helps him to his feet, slowly, slowly, his arm thrown over her shoulder and her arm wrapped tightly around his ribcage. "Ruby, I'm so sorry, but can you and Granny manage? He needs help."

Granny snaps: "What he _needs_ is to dry out and to begin living the life the Lord's called him to lead," She strides out from behind her breakfast counter and stands with both fists firmly upon her ample hips. Joseph's cheeks, already feverish, burn even hotter with shame. Belle glares fiercely round the room at anyone still gawking, then mouths "I'm sorry" to Ruby one last time as she leads Father Joseph out the door.

"It's only a little ways, Father. I live in the apartment above the old library. There's an elevator. No need to walk up any stairs." She honestly means to take him into her home and tend to him. Belle is beauty and goodness itself. It's wretched, knowing how little he deserves her care and attention. But he's too wrecked to resist, and the world is still spinning and spinning, and Joseph is tired deep down in his bones.

"Mass!" He remembers, just as they arrive at Belle's door. "They'll be waiting for me-"

"They'll just have to keep waiting," Belle says firmly. Then, in a softer tone, "I'll call the rectory and let them know you're not well. The deacon can lead your masses until you're back on your feet. Come in, Father…" She leads him into her small studio flat.

There are books piled on every surface: on the little pedestal dining table, on the seat of a worn wingback chair pulled close to the wood stove, on Belle's soft feather bed. Her bookshelves reach the ceiling and are likewise overflowing. During their early morning chats at the diner, they often speak of books, and Joseph is glad to see how close the topic is to Belle's heart.

"Rest here. Lie down if you need to. I'll just fetch more water and an extra blanket." Belle settles him on the edge of her bed, moving a stack of books to the floor, then hurries over to her small studio kitchen. It's identical to the modest cooktop and sink in his own tiny rectory apartment. Joseph wishes he could continue watching Belle move around her home, but his head is pounding and, _Oh God,_ the nausea is returning. He props his elbows upon his knees. _Please, please dear Lord, don't let me make another mess. Not all over her rug and white comforter._

"Here, Father." Belle places a large mixing bowl near his shoes. "Just in case you need it."

She crouches in front of him, and Joseph feels a warm hand come to rest on the back of his neck. Her fingers gently press and knead the tight, corded muscles there. His eyes flutter shut and his lips part from the unexpected pleasure of this tender, intimate touch. Luckily, she doesn't jerk her hand away when he moans softly; Belle simply increases the light pressure of her fingertips. She is merciful and kind and everything that is good. The feel of her stroking and kneading his flesh drives away all thoughts of his nausea, and even his headache begins to subside a bit.

"It's time to rest," Belle says at last, and Joseph humiliates himself by _whimpering_ when the heavenly massage ends. "Shhh, shhh- it's okay, Father. I know that feels lovely. Once we have you out of last night's clothes, and you've had some water, I can continue if you want."

Belle removes his stained, white clerical collar and eases the soiled black jacket from his shoulders. It reeks of the stale cigarette smoke that hangs heavy in the air of The Rabbit Hole. Joseph is mortified that her sweet-smelling flat will soon be filled with the scent of his sweat and his sickness.

"Please, Belle, let me do that!" She has begun to untie his filthy, scuffed black shoes, and he cannot bear the tenderness and servitude of this gesture. Reaching downwards for his laces, darkness crowds Joseph's vision once more, but he bites his lower lip hard and manages to push his shoes from his feet. Belle's helpful fingers are on the small buttons of his black shirt, and even in this sorry state his breathing hitches at the sweet agony of being undressed by this lovely girl. Joseph hasn't been undressed by another person since he was a small child.

"Lay back," she tells him, plumping her pillow and pulling back the white comforter. All at once, Father Joseph is enveloped in Belle's own sweet smell and her soft flannel sheets. She slips her hand beneath his neck and lifts him just enough to comfortably sip from a glass of water. Then he is once again resting upon her pillow. She is settling the extra blanket over his legs and stomach, and Joseph is holding his breath while Belle reaches out and smooths the lank hair back from his pale, sweaty face with her fingertips.

Miraculously, she smiles the fond little smile he has only ever seen her smile at him, praise God, and she instructs him, "Close your eyes, Father. Rest. Your body needs to do some mending. When you wake up, maybe we'll try a little food?"

Does she remember her promise to continue smoothing the soreness from his neck and shoulders if he wants? Joseph doesn't know, and of course he cannot ask her. But he does not close his eyes.

Swallowing, he reaches out tentatively for her, and she freely offers her hand. _"Thank you._ Thank you, Belle. You...didn't need to do any of this. I can't remember the last time I felt…" He clears his throat and tears flood his vision. "But...I cannot sleep. And if you're hoping a nap and a warm meal will cure..._this,_ what ails me, I'm only going to disappoint you, like I've disappointed everyone in this town. As soon as you leave, I'll be rummaging around for liquor in your cabinets, and if you have none, then I'll…"

"Stop." Belle rests her fingertips against his still-moving lips, sending a thrumming, electric current through him. "First off, I'm not going anywhere. Not until you're feeling better. Second, I know I cannot cure...what ails you, _alcoholism,_ with a warm bed and some food. I lost my mother to this disease. So I know it, inside and out. She was...she was drunk one evening and absolutely certain my father was seeing someone behind her back. So she bundled my little sister and me into her truck and…" Belle pushes up her shirt sleeve to reveal the scars from where the metal pins had stabilized her broken wrist. "It took me a full year to heal properly. My pelvis was fractured in the wreck, and I have more of these scars on my leg and ankle. But I was lucky…"

"Your sister?" Joseph chokes out, not certain he can bear the answer. A decent priest would remain serene, no matter the subject matter, but his stomach has always been weak when confronted with the magnitude of human suffering.

Belle shakes her head, staring at her wrist. "I was only seven, and I didn't think to...buckle my sister. I still dream about her sometimes. And about my mother. My father told me she was a lovely woman, before the drink took her. One of the many things that makes it so awful is that my father was the last man who would have ever been unfaithful."

Joseph notices she speaks of her father in the past tense. _God,_ this sweet girl may be as alone as he is. How is it he never asked about her family before?

Belle exhales. It's a shaky little sound. "So, no, I don't expect I'll be saving you. But right now, at this moment, you're in a very bad way, and I won't let you sleep it off in an alley somewhere when I have a bed I can offer. Not when you've been keeping me company at Granny's all those dark mornings. I've begun to think of you as my friend, if that's alright? Let your friend look after you, at least until you can stand without fainting, and then you're welcome to go and find your bottle and your bar."

It is physically painful to hear: her resignation coupled with such tenderness. And God, how long has it been since someone called him 'friend?'

"I'm so, so sorry about your family, Belle. And I'm sorry I said that about hunting through your cabinets. I had no idea…"

She shakes her head as if to clear it. "Of course you didn't. It's okay, really. I never speak of them." Joseph realizes she is still holding his hand, running her thumbs rhythmically over his dry, cracked knuckles as she speaks. "When was it you stopped sleeping?" she asks him after a short silence.

He doesn't talk about this, and he doesn't plan to now, but...Belle is stroking his knuckles, and she is so, so beautiful, enchanting really, leaning close to him and smiling that fond little smile that's just his, all his.

Without thinking, he whispers: "I sometimes...pass out for a few hours, with enough Scotch or...whatever's on hand...but even then, I dream…"

Belle's brow furrows, and she sits up a bit straighter. "You dream? What about?"

Joseph licks and then worries his lips with his teeth, struggling to hold this confession in, but Belle moves to sit beside him on the bed, her hip pressing against his, and he hears the words tumbling out: "I dream about a boy. I'm all he has in the world, and I must hold him. That's all I have to do. Simply hold him. But there is...some force, so powerful...and all around us it's black as pitch...and something snatches him away from me, every night, and I wake up knowing that he's alone and terrified and hungry and that it's my fault, entirely my fault."

Can he bear to tell her this next part? It might be a relief to confess it, but what if Belle is repulsed? She is too kind-hearted to ask him to leave her home, but if his words so much as change the way she smiles at him…

"And sometimes...I dream about you." It's only a murmur. Perhaps she didn't hear.

"What do you dream?" Her hand travels up his chest, resting for a moment against his thudding heart, then over his collarbone, trailing up his neck, and circling behind the base of his skull. Her fingers begin to press and knead once more, and he groans in gratitude.

"I dream..._God_...I dream of you falling. Sometimes I catch you in my arms and hold you, but other times you fall from a high stone tower, and I cannot save you. Sometimes I dream...that you're in love with me, but other times I dream...that you hate me."

Her second hand joins the first, and Belle's fingers travel lower in unison, rubbing the hard knots that perch on top of his shoulders.

"I could never hate you, Father" she reassures him, leaning forward to brush a kiss across his unshaven cheek. It's a feathery, quivery, innocent little caress, and Joseph startles at the heat that floods his face and coils in his abdomen. He jerks his face, and their lips lightly touch.

In a dazzling instant, each sees the same vision: _Joseph, or rather, some strange, unearthly version of him, sits at a bench, breathing hard. Belle strides through the open doorway with a basket. She leans close, smiling, almost laughing, and he smiles a bit in response, but the smile fades when she settles close beside him. They exchange soft words, and then...a kiss._

With a little gasp, Belle bolts to her feet, unnerved by how visceral and immediate the fantasy scene is.

Joseph is trembling, his sex twitching and hardening between his legs. Perhaps this is what people experience when then kiss? But Belle looks panicky, and she has moved quickly away from his bedside. Did she somehow sense or, worse yet, see his desire? He rolls to his side. _Oh God, what has he done?_

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to. I shouldn't have done that…" he stammers, his eyes frantically searching her face for absolution.

"You did nothing wrong, Father! I only...I don't know what I…" Belle pauses, drawing an unsteady breath. "I'll go call the rectory. Then...I'll take a quick shower and change out of my work clothes." She begins to walk away, then turns back, disoriented. "Please, please don't leave," she urges him.

Belle walks hastily to an antique bureau and yanks open a drawer. "If you get the shakes," she explains, crossing the room with an oversized blue sweater held in both hands, "just pull this on. It's a bit threadbare, but it's clean." She lays the sweater next to him on the bed, then hurries to shut herself inside the bathroom.

Joseph hears her voice speaking softly into the telephone, then the water comes on in the shower in a loud rush.

Her sweater! He rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in it, breathing Belle in through his open mouth and nose. The almost tangible vision of her parted lips boldly seeking out his own has inflamed him. Perhaps it's only because he's slowly sobering up? Liquor has the added benefit of dulling his desire and leaving him flaccid much of the time. Joseph can count on one hand the number of instances he's struggled for pleasure against a mattress, seeking physical release, but he's frantic for it now. _There must be time,_ as hard and desperate as he is, before Belle finishes her shower.

Joseph clutches the blue sweater in one hand, pressing it to his face and inhaling. In his other hand, he fists the pillow, resolved to abstain from touching himself. This has always been his strange and humiliating compromise: he will not take himself in hand. He will not cup and fondle his heavy, aching balls, though it would be bliss to feel them tightly pressed to the base of his rigid cock. He will only rut and thrust against her soft mattress, muffling his obscene grunts with Belle's sweet-smelling sweater.

_The water is still on in the shower. There has to be time._

His inexperienced hips rock forward and back, forward and back, searching for a rhythm that will allow him to come quickly and, _please God,_ discretely within his cotton briefs. The press of his painfully swollen erection against his belly and the bed is a relief, but he is overly anxious and far too eager. His thrusts are erratic, not bringing him any closer to completion. He moans, biting the cotton, running his tongue over the yarn. _Oh please...oh please…_

"Belle!" He pleads and grunts her name into the sweater, thrusting roughly, imagining her generous, soft lips, her pink tongue, her brown, tumbling curls, and the oh-so feminine curve of her hip.

_"It's okay, Joseph,"_ he imagines Belle murmuring, _"I know this feels lovely."_ The cotton fabric rubbing against his cock is beginning to chafe. His heart is nearly pounding out of his chest, and his knuckles are white, grasping and twisting the pillowcase. _"Belle-"_ he groans.

"Joseph." She breathes his name, the first time she's ever simply called him 'Joseph,' and he twists sharply around to look at her, utterly horrified.

Belle is standing in the open bathroom door, dripping water on the wood floor and wrapped in a scant, white towel. Her wet hair clings to her neck and shoulders. Steam rises from her skin. The water is still on in the shower. She sees everything: his flushed and sweaty face, his jagged breathing, the straining erection that tents and dampens his trousers, the wet spot on her sweater from his teeth and tongue.

"Oh God, Belle!" Joseph cries. He is unable to move or say anything more coherent, but he holds out a beseeching hand. There is no way to rescue this wretched moment. She has seen his depravity. She is his only friend, and he has lost her.

Belle's lips part, possibly to berate him, but instead of yelling, her tongue darts out to touch her lips. She stares at him for a long time, then exhales slowly and disappears into the bathroom. The sound of rushing water stops. When she returns to stand in the doorway, Belle glances shyly at him, then slowly unwraps her towel, displaying first one heavy breast, then the other. She allows the white towel to fall in a heap around her ankles, suddenly exposing her damp thicket of curls and rounded, white thighs.

"I dream about you, too," she whispers, but she doesn't move toward him. Instead, she lifts a plump, pale breast in one hand, holding his awestruck gaze. His cock twitches at Belle's sharp intake of breath as she rubs a thumb slowly over her rosy, erect nipple. She takes the sensitive little bud between her fingers and gently pinches, then tugs.

With a pained cry, he reaches out for her, but still Belle doesn't approach the bed. Instead, she turns and walks to the wingback chair by her woodstove, offering him a beautiful glimpse of her exquisite, dimpled bottom. She looks back over her shoulder, meeting his hazy, lovestruck stare, then turns and sits, draping one long leg over the cushioned armrest, giving him a glorious view of the secretive, pink folds between her thighs, surrounded by a forest of dark, damp curls.

Belle's hand travels from her full, trembling breast to her soft, sloping abdomen, then even lower, to the mysterious mound between her legs. Her fingers spread open her outer lips, displaying even more wet, feminine pinkness. With her free hand, Belle slides two fingers over her rippling folds, dipping downwards, then back up, never breaking eye contact. "Every night I dream that I'm trying to find my way back to you," she confesses, her eyelids heavy and her voice lower than he's ever heard it.

"Unbutton your pants, Joseph," she whispers, and though he is shaking badly from this heady mix of nerves and desire, he rushes to comply, even managing to unzip his fly on the third try.

"Take them off, sweetheart. I want to see you." Belle's fingers are moving rhythmically between her thighs, and she is breathing heavily as she watches him jerk his pants down over his narrow hips, kicking at the covers. "Oh honey, that's good," she praises, "Now your underpants, too, Joseph. Let me see you." He watches her fingers disappear deep inside as he tugs wildly at his cotton briefs, accidentally catching them against his erection, but at last he manages to remove his underwear as well.

Joseph is bare before her except for his white t-shirt, and he is shaking like a leaf.

_"You're perfect,"_ Belle breathes, and he moans, his hips jerking involuntarily. "Oh, baby, use your palm, like this." She demonstrates, her fingers still curled deep inside, but her palm now cupped against her thicket of curls, moving rhythmically. With a pained whimper, Joseph allows his own hand to travel downward over the coarse hair on his concave belly. When at last he cradles his aching cock against his pelvis, he makes a pained little noise and then begins to rock and pant.

"That's right, sweetheart" Belle encourages, "You don't need to be rough with yourself. Now with your other hand-reach down and lightly touch your balls with your fingertips. Just light touches. That's good, baby. Now take them in your hand, and press them tightly up against you." His eyes roll back for a moment, and Joseph must struggle to keep his eyes fixed on this glorious girl who dreams about him.

Belle's two fingers and palm are moving ever more rapidly, and the dampness from her lovely little cunt has spread to her thighs, glistening in the early afternoon sunlight. Her breath comes in eager little gasps as she watches him tentatively stroke his balls, then cup them with a groan to the base of his thick, swollen sex. His palm also moves faster, pressing and rubbing against him. Neither one of them can draw the breath to speak just now, but, Oh God, his body understands this rhythm. He gives in to it completely, watching her watching him, softly crying out each time his palm brushes over the flushed, sensitive head of his cock. One of Belle's hands reaches up to fondle her breast and pinch the rosy nipple, her breathing is erratic and her movements are increasingly jerky. Her fingers thrust faster and faster, and her sex deepens in color. Her mouth has fallen open, and her expression is slack. She is absolutely exquisite in her abandon.

"Sweetheart, I'm close," she chokes out, "Are you? Oh-!"

He truly doesn't know, inexperienced as he is, but all at once his balls clench even tighter against his body, and Joseph feels the inevitability of his release approaching, "Yes!" he tells her, "Yes!"

A grimace contorts Belle's face-half pain, half pleasure-and she jerks and arches against her own hand, calling out for him. And then, _Oh God,_ Joseph's eyes clench shut when his own climax overtakes him, wetting his stomach and the sleeve of Belle's sweater. It goes on and on, the quaking of his hips and the liquid heat that first erupts, then seeps from him.

When at last the tremors subside and he is able to open his eyes, Joseph sees that Belle has crossed the room on her hands and knees, and that she is pulling herself up with trembling arms to lay on the bed beside him.

"Baby," she says simply. "Sweetheart." Her beautiful, perspiring, naked body settles on top of the white coverlet, and he curls against her, nuzzling as close as he is able, shyly hiding his face against her lovely breasts, then daring to kiss and suckle at one of the rosy, pebbled tips. She languidly runs her fingers through his matted hair, then draws the sheet and blanket over him, clasping him close while he drowsily tastes her. "Mmmm," she encourages. Belle falls asleep to the gentle, insistent tug of his lips and tongue against her breast, and Joseph falls asleep pressed flush against her, his mouth still open against her flesh.

Later that afternoon, before either of them wake, a yellow Volkswagen Beetle rolls into town. A young boy with brown hair and eager eyes directs the driver to Granny's Diner.

"What's your name, dear?" Granny asks, wiping the counter. "We don't see many new faces in Storybrooke."

"It's Emma," the young woman replies. "My name is Emma."


End file.
